


A.H.

by Cascaper



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Grieving, Haurchefangst, Hurt/Attempted Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Insert, because this is a pretty huge spoiler, if by some chance you're not quite done with Heavensward then for glob's sake keep away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:30:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: In which death is always hideous, but especially this time.





	1. Fault

**Author's Note:**

> If there were more dang time between quests to actually let the impact of a *certain dungeon's* ending settle in, this is what I imagine would happen. Aka, LET US TRULY MOURN. PLEASE.

The flash half-blinds her, and she has to throw up her hands to save some scrap of her retinas from bursting into flame.

She can make out Haurchefant’s silhouette, his shield raised high, holding off the deadly aether spear with considerable effort; the very floor shakes beneath their feet as the thing tries its damnedest to break through. But Haurchefant has weathered tougher stuff than this.

Hasn’t he.

He digs in his heels and makes the spear fight for every ilm it forces him to bend. He is steel, he is mythrite, he will be damned if this thing gets within so much as a fulm of- of his- _dear friend,_ yes, he has always called her that. He pushes back, as relentless as the tide, as fierce as storms.

She has just recovered enough equilibrium to reach for her own weapon, or to help him hold the shield against the onslaught, or something-

_CRACK._

The noise is like a gunshot; in its echoing wake comes another, smaller _crack,_ and another, and-

-and the beam pierces Haurchefant’s shield.

Then it pierces him.

He topples to the ground.

Every nerve along her spine clenches with the shock. Claws dig into her back, seizing her insides with one great silent scream of _no_ as she stumbles to his side. Her throat is sealed shut; she cannot make a sound, can only stare at him in silent agony. Hells take this. Hells take _her._ Gods, gods, gods…

Aymeric is there, suddenly. Or mayhap it is that she only becomes aware of him now, as he half raises the fallen Haurchefant from the pavement.

“You…you are unharmed?” The thrice-damned fool actually smiles at her, as if he doesn’t notice the blood spattered over his lip or the seething wound below his ribs.

She looks her answer; she can do naught else. _Of course I’m fine- never mind me! How could you-?!_

He seems to catch her wordless accusation. “F-Forgive me… I could not bear the thought of…of…” Perhaps both sentiment and pain preclude the end of that sentence.

_**You** can’t? Then do you imagine that **I** can bear this?_ Her sob, like her voice, remains locked deep in her chest. He holds out a hand to her; she lurches forward and clutches it in both her own, thinking vaguely of helping him save every onze of strength.

The color is all but gone from his face; his eyes burn up at her like violet stars. His voice is growing fainter. “Oh, do not look at me so,” he chides her fondly. “A smile better suits a hero…” Her best effort produces a mere suggestion of one, but it seems to be enough for him. His eyelids drift shut.

Blood roars in her ears, drowning out all other sound. Time slows to a crawl. The world retreats around her, malms upon malms.

She can feel herself rising to her feet, readying her sword to have at the cowards who have dared to do this thing… but of course they are gone. They have fled, as cowards are wont to do. Which leaves her with the remains of the finest, noblest, kindest man she has ever known.

***

They have to go back, of course, to Fortemps Manor. To tell the family. She is numb, frozen to the marrow from so much more than the cold. Her throat will not give way, nor will her tear ducts. She supposes this is well, as Count Edmont has tears enough for everyone. And after all, hasn’t he the greatest cause to weep? He may have other sons, but they are not Haurchefant, and nor could they be.

She is glass. She is ice. She makes it to her room and sinks into the barest corner, a spot uncovered by rug or tapestry, as far from the bed and the fire as she can get. This house that hosts her has lost its brightest star, and it is all her fault. She does not deserve warmth or comfort. She will not shame them by rejecting their hospitality entirely, but neither will she partake of more than she can help.

( _Tataru finds her at some gods-forsaken hour, huddled with her knees against her chest._

_“[Name]?” she whispers. No answer. She reaches out, tentatively, to touch one of those [color] hands. “[Name],” she tries again. Nothing._

_She runs to the doorway, calls out down the hall. “Alphinaud! In here!”_ )

She is void. She is hollow.

She is… being shaken.

_“[Name]!”_

Alphinaud’s panicked face is before her in the dimness, barely visible in the light of the last guttering embers. “Twelve be praised, you are here. You did not answer when I knocked, and I might never have found you at all if Tataru had not insisted upon making sure your room was empty. She has gone to the kitchens now- she spoke of making you some tea.” He pauses. Searches her face. “[Name]…”

Her throat has come unblocked at last. “Alphinaud,” she croaks, so he’ll stop looking at her like that. The panic does leave his features, swiftly replaced by concern.

“You, er… How long is it since you sat down?” She has no idea. She stares back at him, dully. “You have not… changed,” he says, glancing at her gauntlets, then flicking an eye over the rest of her outfit. How like him to hesitate in telling her she ought to rid herself of these filthy garments. Or at least get them laundered.

Perhaps if she could feel anything much right now, she might have felt the need. Might have felt how the sweat and fear and rage had caked into the fabric laid against her skin. Might have noticed the blood on the knees of her boots, on her sleeves, on her shoulders… gods only know whose it all is.

Whose blood is… If she were not already sitting, she might have staggered at the thought.

She wills her muscles to move, to approximate something like a smile. It must not work; she can see Alphinaud stifling a recoil. She abandons the effort.

“[Name], Alphinaud,” comes Tataru’s voice from the hallway. “I’m back. If you could help me with the door…?”

He seems reluctant to leave her side, but rises to answer this call, revealing Tataru with her hands full of tea tray. She moves as fast as she dares to get it to the table by the fireside. Alphinaud waits til she nods her permission before taking and placing the load on the tabletop; the receptionist scrambles up onto one of the chairs to pour a steaming mugful, which she promptly brings to the Warrior’s corner.

The only thing worse than a panicked Alphinaud is a crying Tataru. [Name] accepts the mug without comment, even takes a sip. It is strange, spiky, on her tongue.

Then dull heat spreads through her, radiating out from her throat to her torso and the ends of every limb. What kind of spirits are supposed to do this again? Rum? Whiskey? This odd element is just faint enough to elude identification; if she didn’t know better she would swear there was _pepper_ in this cup. She takes one more sip, experimental, then coughs. Sets the mug down-

-into a small hand, rather than onto the floor. “Please, [Name],” Tataru says, gently pushing the tea back toward her. “You’re freezing. This will help.”

That last word manages to prick her like a thousand barbed spines. “Later,” she whispers. “I promise,” she adds, as neither of her friends seem convinced. There is a pause.

“Very well,” Tataru says, a little too calmly. “But you’re not spending a moment longer in those clothes.”

At this, Alphinaud hastily rises, making for the door. 

“Alphinaud,” Tataru calls after him, “send Emmalie from the end of the hall, would you?”

He pauses just long enough to throw a nod over his shoulder before all but vanishing from the room.

***

The next few bells blur together. Under Tataru’s command, the fire is built up again, water heated, a bath drawn and a Warrior deposited therein. Steam rises, wave on wave, but she sits there as if its source is no more than room temperature. It could be scalding, for all she cares.

_(“Should we… ah… scrub her?” whispers one of the maids, near the door._

_“No,” Tataru whispers back. “Getting her into the tub was the important part. If you could give me a stool, I shall take it from here.”)_

‘Deep in the desert of my heart, a lonely flower blooms,  
Yearning for the heavens above  
To quench my thirst for you…’

Quiet song penetrates her haze. She turns her head to find the singer, who breaks off at her glance.

“So you _are_ awake. Good,” Tataru says. “I tried to do my bit for you with the soap, but, well. There’s only so far I can reach.”

Mechanically, [Name] does what is needed to finish the business of bathing, drying and dressing (in a nightgown light as cloud mallow). Lets herself be guided back to the bedchamber she has no right to, tucked under covers heavy as icy earth.

“I’ll be right back,” Tataru tells her, and leaves the room.

[Name] stares into the darkness of the ceiling. She knows her friends will fuss if she gets out of bed again too soon, so she resolves to wait.

…There is light, suddenly, from somewhere above her- too bright, half blinding. She must block its glare, but her hands are too heavy. Must move, must help, but her limbs are as lead. He cannot do it alone. He needs her strength. He- he…

She gasps awake, her whole body pulsing with hot heartbeats. She flings off the covers, rolls upright, and has one foot out of bed when she feels herself stopped by tender hands.

“My friend, my friend,” Alphinaud is saying. “It is all right. You are safe.”

This is not true. How can it be? She didn’t move in time, she didn’t do a gods-damned thing that would have saved him. She didn’t even say goodbye. Yet she is here, intact, conscious, bearing titles she has never deserved less. _‘Friend.’ ‘Warrior.’ ‘Hero.’_

“No,” she manages.

“We are safe here,” he repeats, his voice gentle but firm. “You must rest, truly rest. Keep off the covers if you like, but at least lie back down.”

She remains sitting.

Alphinaud sighs. “[Name], you have gone through much and more without sufficient time for recovery. We have that time now, and if you do not use it, you’ll not be adventuring much longer.” He pauses. “I will sit on you if need be.”

The feeble joke lands like a tonze of bricks in the ensuing silence, as her young friend searches for the words that will get his patient to obey.

“For his sake,” he finally says, “if not ours.”

She collapses onto her side and cries until she cannot breathe.


	2. Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I could not bear to leave things as they were at the end of that last one.

She does not know when, precisely, she fell asleep after sobbing herself out. What she does know is that it’s getting closer to morning, and she’s just woken up to the sight of a snowy-haired head not a fulm away from her.

Alphinaud is down for the count, his face buried in his arms, leaning on the edge of her mattress. There’s an empty stool behind him, which he seems to have abandoned in favor of kneeling in this way. [Name] is too exhausted to puzzle out why he would have taken up such a position.

Only… it cannot be good for him, she thinks, sleeping in that strange attitude. Gods know he’s done similar over many a desk, but that was from a seat closer to said surface’s height. No, no- if she is supposed to rest properly, then by the [guardian] he will too.

She reaches out and shakes him gently by the shoulder. He makes a low sort of “hmm” sound, barely awake.

“Hey,” she says, briefly surprised to hear the hoarseness in her own voice. “Alphinaud… You dozed off, I think.”

Another low “hmm.”

“Shouldn’t you lie down?” she asks him. 

He shakes his head just a bit. Mumbles something.

“Pardon?” She scoots closer.

“…cert’n yer all right,” comes through the crook of his arm.

Was he… was he _praying,_ down there on the floor, that she would find some measure of peace? _“I do not think he likes being ignored,”_ a phantom voice sounds in her head, and despite (or perhaps due to) her fatigue, her eyes sting with a few fresh tears.

She shakes that thin shoulder once more. “I will be all right, but please… Lie down.”

In the end he crawls up next to her and stretches out with his head on one of the extra pillows. She faintly remembers having wondered why this bed was so wide upon first seeing it (was that only moons ago? it seems longer), but now she’s glad it is so. Moving over to the other side, she pulls half the covers over herself- his legs are weighing down the other half- and drifts into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

***

It is afternoon now, she thinks, and she is alone. She has finally had enough of rest; her muscles have gone stiff with inactivity. She still feels a bit hollow, but eating is not now an entirely unwelcome notion.

There is something under a silver dome over on the table by the fireplace; upon inspection, it is a plate of plain, cold food- some fruit, dried karakul meat, slices of bread. And a note, sticking out from under the edge of it all.

_When you wake, please have some of this. You know you need it. -T_

She takes some of the meat and works at it slowly with her teeth. She is not sure how much her stomach will accept, after the night she has had, but Tataru is right: she does need some sustenance, if only to spur her on to the end of this day, and the next- to the true end of this war.

As it turns out, she gets the meat and a few bites of apple down before her insides start threatening to revolt. She waits a half-bell or so, hoping the churning will cease on its own, but all in vain- she is forced to flee to the washstand, its basin being the nearest thing to a bucket. Twelve forgive her for befouling such fine porcelain. When she feels well enough to move again, she gingerly carries the thing to the bathroom and sets it in a corner- then creeps back to the chamber that is, for now, hers.

***

For an entire moon, the subject of that first night A.H. (After Haurchefant) goes untouched. There are battles and pursuits and all the usual fare, while [Name] tries her damnedest to maintain a sort of baseline ‘normal’ behavior pattern, lest she become a liability to their missions and a further worry to her friends.

(The sight of certain shades of blue puts her on high alert, yes, and if anyone uses the word ‘splendid’ within earshot she is nearly deafened with its echo through her memories, and she takes great care with all her meals lest they decide to come back up. But she is by-gods trying.)

Tonight, though, she feels a touch better- Tataru has news of lost Scions found, and they are to set out for Ul'dah in the morning. She has already packed her bag; now she sits at the hearth, staring into the fire.

Then the door opens behind her: lo and behold, it is Alphinaud, who goes slightly pink in the face when she spots him.

“[Name],” he says. “May I come in?”

She nods.

He makes his way inside, but declines to sit; instead, he seems to be trying not to shift his weight or even tread too loudly. “You… you look well. Better, that is.”

Well, she’s not had to heave in quite some time, she supposes. “Thank you,” she says, recognizing and encouraging this obvious stall, before the pair of them lapse into mutual silence.

It suddenly occurs to her that he has been especially kind, not mentioning the spectacle she must have made of herself, or how alarming it must have been for him to witness: the ever-stoic, steady Warrior of Light turned to a wailing child. She wants to acknowledge this, but gathering the nerve is proving difficult. Still…

They both begin to speak at once, then stop. He holds up a hand. “You first, my friend.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it all out. “I am… sorry for the way I behaved the other night. You should never have had to see me- carrying on, like that. I tend to worry you enough as it is.”

He is pinker than ever. “[Name]- ‘tis I who must apologize for that night. Not only did I speak without thinking, careless of your grief, but I- I…” His turn to breathe deep. “It seems that I intruded upon your, ah. Your…” His gaze darts to the bed and back. “Pray forgive my thoughtlessness.”

[Name]’s heart aches. She can even muck up kindness, it seems. “Oh, Alphinaud…” she whispers, then swallows. Pushes her voice to its usual volume. “It was no intrusion. You were tired. I had the space, and I gave it to you- I didn’t want you to awaken feeling as if you’d never shut your eyes. Not after you stayed all night to look after me… There is naught to forgive."

His blush has faded, but now he has the strangest expression on his face.

“What is it?” She is done, she decides, with letting things remain unspoken- especially between her friends.

“We are almost never able to relax, we Scions,” he finally says. “The world does not cease being imperiled for anyone’s sake, let alone ours. But that does not mean you must spend every waking moment pushing your heart aside while we do what needs to be done. There are some hours we do have for ourselves, and I would… that is… I would fain have you come and find me if you ever require a friendly ear, or simple companionship. Do not worry about frightening me or- or ‘carrying on.’”

She stares at him. Is he serious? “I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” she says slowly. “There’s… a lot going on here. To put it mildly.”

He half-smiles. “If it gives you ease for so much as a minute, it is worth it. No one- not even the Warrior of Light- should carry all her burdens alone.”

Damn it, is everything going to make her cry now? She blinks furiously and nods, pressing her lips together in a futile attempt to keep the tears back. Bowing her head, she lets them fall.

She hears him approach, and then something soft is brushing her fingers. He’s offering her his handkerchief. She presses it to her eyes and waits for this fresh tide to ebb away.

When she can look at him again, she gives him a wan smile. “What was it you said to me, back on the Royal Promenade? ‘There is no woman alive in whom I would rather confide?’”

Alphinaud blinks. “You… remember that.”

“I could hardly forget,” she admits. “It _is_ one of the nicest things anyone ever told me. And… if you really don’t mind…”

“Of course not!” he exclaims, then covers his mouth as his blush floods back. “I mean- I beg your pardon- do go on.”

She can feel her smile gain a little more life. “I was going to say that at times like this, I… I don’t think I’d rather have anyone else with me than you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This loss is promising to be a much harder bit of the MSQ to deal with on my current (second) playthrough of FFXIV. The Vault is coming on like a freight train, besides which deaths irl are just all around- family members, family of friends, plus all the crap going down in schools across the country... So as part of dragging out the actual moment with screenshots and such, I wrote this two-part tale.


End file.
